


Day 1: Holding Hands

by chucksauce



Series: 30-Day OTP Challenge [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Boy Scouts, Gen, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, M/M, and sally joins in the fun, anderson being a dick, kid!lock au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:08:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is only in the Cub Scouts because his mother made him. Luckily, he has finally made a friend. Unfortunately, Anderson is a total prat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 1: Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I'm attempting to complete the 30-Day OTP Challenge, buuuut this is more or less something for me to fall back on between chapters of my other story (currently working on the sequel to The Case of the People's Crown), and as such I will probably do one every few days or so. Expect updates on Sundays, if you're the type to keep up with that sort of thing. :D

“This whole exercise is pointless. When am I ever going to need to know how to perform any of these activities in real life?” 

This would be Sherlock Holmes, aged ten years, ten months, and three days. His mother had sent him on this Cub scout trip as part of a last-ditch effort to get him to socialize with “children his own age.” This attempt was failing as miserably as the previous attempts, which included summer camps for a staggering variety of interests, as well as one miserable attempt to enroll him in an after-school football club the year before. That one had been particularly disastrous.

He kicked at what his partner considered a perfectly useful branch, deciding it wouldn’t make for good firewood (too decayed).

Speaking of his partner, he had accidentally managed to make a friend at this cub scout outing: one John Watson, who was about as opposite the youngest Holmes as one could imagine. The other kids gave the pale, curly-haired boy a wide berth, especially after he asked the Cub Scout leader if they would get to hunt (and hopefully dissect) animals while on the camping trip.

But not John. John had taken a shine to the shunned boy, and because of Holmes’s outcast nature, felt it was his job to make sure this grumpy, over-dressed boy had at least one friend to pair up with for activities.

“You never know,” John answered him, picking up another dead-fallen branch to add to the bundle in his arms. “What if you go into Service? Might be useful then.” He smiled his sunny, cheerful smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, fighting to keep from smirking at John’s good humour, trying not to let the older boy (but only by nine months, twenty-five days, thank you very much) ruin a perfectly decent sulk. 

“There’s a good one, grab it.” John pointed to a large branch--one that Sherlock would have to drag. This was John’s ploy to get Sherlock to actually do some of their assigned chore, as the taller boy had yet to actually contribute to the collection of firewood for the evening.

“Too wet,” Sherlock replied dismissively, jamming his hands into the pockets of his black woolen peacoat. “It wouldn’t burn well at all.” 

John rolled his eyes, pushed aside the feeling of annoyance building in his chest about being the only one to do their assigned task, and said nothing about the fact that they were collecting dead-wood after all, and wasn’t it all technically too damp? Instead he looked around him, and noted, “It’s starting to get dark. Do you think we have enough to head back?”

And indeed, heavy twilight had drifted down between the late-autumn tree branches, and soon John would have to pull out his torch (though how, with his arms full, he knew not).

“More than enough,” Sherlock replied. “You know they just add good dry wood from their own stash.”

John’s reply was cut short as an odd growl and shuffling noise came from a nearby clump of bushes. Both boys froze, staring in the direction of the sound. It was impossible in the failing light to see what animal was lurking there.

“Just stay still,” Sherlock whispered to John, not taking his eyes from the bush. “Do you have your torch?”

John nodded quickly, afraid to even move enough to shift his bundle of deadwood to retrieve it from the cargo pocket of his jeans.

Another growl emanated from the bushes, and then from another clump on the opposite side of them. John was sure he could feel his heart thumping in his throat, and the fact that even the imperturbable boy beside him was wide-eyed and still frightened him further. If it was bad enough to scare the boy-genius, it was likely a bad situation.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. “I’m going to get the torch from your pocket. Can you shift your sticks enough to take my hand?”

John nodded again, and tried his best to move his bundle to one arm as slowly and quietly as possible to keep from alerting the things in the bushes that the boys were aware of them--that seemed to be the rule. If the monsters know that one knew about them, then they stopped hiding. That was usually when the monsters started attacking.

There’s no such thing as monsters, John reminded himself. He hadn’t believed in them for years (since he was eight, and that was ages ago), but now, in the growing dark of a strange forest, it was hard to remember the truth.

Sherlock leaned down, his hand fishing into the cargo pocket. After he pulled the torch out, he swapped it to his other hand and dropped his right again to take John’s pudgier hand in his. The shorter boy was tense, almost shaking. Sherlock swallowed hard. If this was bad enough to shake the easy-going Watson, who likely knew more about this outdoorsy nonsense than he did--well. That was certainly not a good sign.

The growling this time was punctuated by a long, low howl, the likes of which was enough to chill their blood and stop their hearts.

“John?” Sherlock whispered again to his silent companion.

“Yeah?”

“Get ready to run.”

They didn’t wait for the noises to happen again. Sherlock flicked on the torch and bolted, half-dragging John behind him. The shorter boy had to run twice as hard, just in an effort to keep pace with his lanky-legged friend.

They could hear the whatever-they-weres, crashing through the underbrush, snapping twigs and shuffling leaves and that growling… and the howls. John was certain that at any moment he’d feel the teeth of some wild dog as it pounced down on him, dragging him to the ground by his shoulder. Tears welled in his eyes, made it harder for him to see. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand tight and just ran, letting the younger boy lead him.

Eventually they made it back to the campfire, and something about that circle of campers, the glow of the fire, stopped them in their tracks. The other kids all stared at them, startled and their main thought evident: “Are we in danger? What’s going on?”

A few of the tougher boys hid their fear behind scowls, and John felt his ears burn with their disapproval. He dropped Sherlock’s hand, and tossed the firewood down.

“There--” he stammered, “there was something in the woods. I--we--heard something.”

“Probably just a little squirrel,” one of the boys, Dimmock, called.

“It wasn’t a bloody squirrel, Dimmock!” Sherlock snapped.

“Now, boys,” their leader said, crossing to take stock of the two frightened boys. “Are you sure?”

But Sherlock was still wild-eyed. “It was there! I heard it, we heard it!” He looked angry and terrified at the same time, and was waving his arms frantically, turning back to indicate that he creatures that had chased them were likely to attack the group at any moment. 

But then John saw something, and he closed his eyes in frustration. “Sherlock,” he said, nudging his friend. “Sherlock, just look.”

Sherlock stopped his tirade long enough to study the campfire: surely if unobservant John had seen something he hadn’t, it must have been utterly obvious.

There were two empty spots around the campfire, in addition to their own.

Donovan and Anderson, two of the other campers, were not there.

Sally Donovan and Sylvia Anderson, who happened to be the two to pick on Sherlock the most.

About that time snarky, nasal laughter sounded out from behind them. Another voice, higher, feminine, joined in the merriment. Just at the edge of the firelight’s glow they caught the shapes of the other missing campers as they walked forward.

“Oh, did we find you!” Anderson called as he reached his former quarry. “They about wet their pants, I believe!”

“Oh, shut up, Sylvia!” Sherlock sneered, and John laid a hand on his friend’s arm. Sherlock’s eyes darted to meet John’s, and was able to read his new friend’s expression pretty easily: Shut up, they’re going to get into trouble anyway. His mouth twisted angrily, but he kept silent.

“Sally, whose idea was this?” the scout leader asked, disappointment darkening his tone.

The girl swallowed, and at least had the grace to try and sound contrite as she stared in mild shame at her trainers. “It was mine, sir.”

“We only meant it as a laugh,” Anderson added, having belatedly decided that trouble may be awaiting them.

The scene played out: the scout leader gave Anderson and Donovan a good scolding, and the two were quiet for the rest of the evening, except for when Sherlock or John were close enough to Donovan for her to mutter, “Freaks,” under her breath during dinner or story-time.

Eventually the scouts were ushered off to their tents, and lights-out was called for the night. Sherlock stretched out on his side of the tent he shared with John, who was curled already into his sleeping bag, hand stretched carelessly from under his pillow from the way his arm supported his head. Sherlock read a bit from an utter waste of time his mother had packed for him, The Dangerous Book for Boys, via pen-light, until the wee hours of the morning, when his eyelids were finally too heavy for him to ignore.

As he lay there in the darkness, a soft rustle shifted the leaves just on the other side of the tent wall. Sherlock frowned, and tried not to remember his misplaced fear from earlier in the evening. All the same, there was only one way for him to finally relax enough to fall asleep.

And when John woke in the morning, to find Sherlock’s fingers tangled in his in the middle of the tent floor, he smiled at his friend, and waited for the wakeup-call to be given.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy making friends with strangers on the internet. Come by and say hi!
> 
>   * [**My Fandom Tumblr**](http://chucksauce.tumblr.com) for all manner of crying about fictional characters and laughing at shitposts
>   * **[My Fic Rec Blog](http://spoilersauce.tumblr.com)** , if you're into multifandom recs.
>   * **[Under-London](http://under-london.com/)** , the original serialized novel I'm working on for cheap-as-free!
>   * **[My Twitter](http://twitter.com/chucksauce221)** , where I basically live when I'm not writing...
> 



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